


In the Dark Days Behind Us

by kayurafii



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 2015 reverse big bag, Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Depression, Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang, Happy Ending, I faked it through Rivain, M/M, Magic, No Spoilers, Post Trespasser, they're on a quest, though not too much of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:36:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5461871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayurafii/pseuds/kayurafii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Trespasser the Inquisitor, Trystan Trevelyan, becomes possessed.  Once the Inner CIrcle have carted their friend and leader back to Skyhold, Dorian immediately sets to work to find a way to save his love from both the brand and public humiliation.  Not that the Inquisition could withstand the scrutiny nor the newly formed Circles offer the help they need.  And Dorian will allow himself to perish from exhaustion before he lets any even think of putting Trevelyan down for his own good.</p>
<p>His quest drags them from one corner of Thedas to the other in search of some way to expel the demon without harming Trystan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dark Days Behind Us

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2015 Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang
> 
> Artist name: Fawnlenn  
> Art Title: Lead Us Not Into Temptation
> 
> Author #2: uurthemiel (Suckerpunch)  
> Story Title #2: look at the stars (look how they shine for you)  
> Pairing(s): Male Trevelyan/Dorian Pavus  
> Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
> 
> Beta read by Dedkake (I love you!)
> 
>   
>  <http://dragonagebb.tumblr.com/post/135545688261/lead-us-not-into-temptation>  
> 

 

**Day One**

  _Amatus.  I didn’t say that as much as I should have when you were here.  No, I did it all wrong._

_They won’t kill you, I won’t let them.  I won’t allow them near you._

_If the Seekers have a way to undo Tranquility, then I can find a way to kick this demon out of you.  I’ll fix this.  And when I do, I’ll not waste another chance. And I can do it without letting the world know._

 

*

 

The candles remain unlit.  The only light he needs is cast by the barrier, a thin purple that draws its captive in sharp lines.  It almost hides the demonic glow in his eyes.  He--It is smiling, mirth and dark promises sparkling across Its familiar face. 

“Amatus,” the demon purrs, “we’re together, at least.  Let me out of here so I can show my appreciations.”

“It won’t work, fiend.  Maybe if I hadn’t known…” he trails off, sighs, “But I do.  And it won’t.” He turns back to his book, “Leave me be.” 

“ _Amatus_ ,” the dual quality of the voice fades and it’s all Trystan now, “amatus, let me out.”

Dorians breathes in for a count of seven and out for eleven and continues reading.  “You realize, you must, that he hardly speaks Trade properly, let alone knows what that word means.”  He keeps his back to the abomination.

 “Beloved.” It states, simply, the demon’s voice again wrapped around his love’s.

 

*

 

“Beating against the glass, a sparrow’s wings against the gale and a hard place.  Darkness inside and out with screaming in between.” Cole, perched on the table nearest the barrier, whispers.  He’s rocking back and forth, but Dorian’s pleased because it’s only his first outburst in over an hour.

“You’ll get nothing reading that thing, Cole.  The only help it wants is to escape and have its merry time with our dear Inquisitor’s body and reputation,” He supplies while hefting one stack of books closer to the door.  They can all be returned to the library.  Useless.

The candles are burning low, and the glow in the hallway is receding with the daylight.  The demon riding Trystan has been silent since forcing revelation on the mage, blessedly so.  It’s spent Its time pacing Its enclosure, trying to spy on what Dorian’s working on, and was even a model prisoner when the Templar guards brought in lunch.

“It doesn’t need help.  Trystan needs to know that we know that he’s there.” The spirit looks at Dorian.  “He’s afraid we’ll forget him.”

“Well, mellitus, you let him know that we won’t.” He turns from Cole and looks into the eyes he knows so well, even tainted by circumstance and distorted by the barrier, “We won’t and we can’t.  Not ever.”

“He knows _you_ won’t.  But the world moves on.  Chained and screaming, punished and forgotten, left to rot as the Enchanters and Templars argue fate and rights, whose blood and why blood and _how_ dare he?!  He’s seen it happen.  A lost cause and waste of time a resources.  Better to end it and spin a pretty tale.” He smiles up at Dorian, the scowl and cloud drifting away from his face. “That’s what Varric is for, right?”

Dorian does his best to not look stricken - or angry for that matter.  “We won’t forget him and we won’t give up on him, will we, mellitus?”

“No.  He was our friend.  We will get our friend back.”

“Any idea on how to do that?” The mage asks, a little hope shining through despite his best intentions.

Cole just shakes his head before he disappears.

 

***

 

**Day Three**

_I’m not sure what It hopes to accomplish.  It hasn’t spoken since the day before last, when it threw my own arrogance in my face.  But It watches.  I wish I knew what It saw; does It think me a simple mark?  Perhaps It waits for me to crack.  I won’t.  I can’t._

_Aside from extricating this thing from him, I need to figure out how and maybe why.  How because I know Trystan wouldn’t give in.  And why, well, I just need to know._

_The Inquisition continues to go on without Trevelyan, for now.  But It has to know that we wouldn’t ever allow It to escape with him, let alone to lead.  We would sooner allow Sera to host a gala!  But It must know that we will kill It before allowing It out.  I will kill him before I allow it be known he’s possessed._

_Lady Nightingale has assured me that my missives have been received, she’ll alert me when responses make it through.  Hopefully, my requests will be not far behind._

_Cole and I had a chat (in brief spurts as he kept disappearing when I became distressed).  It turns out that he has nothing to offer, even as a Spirit himself.  But he inhabits no body other than his own and he has no desire to know how it’s done.  He knows a deal is needed, though a demon of sufficient strength can force its way in._

_I assume that is the case here.  Cole will keep his ear to the fade for me.  It’s one more hope._

*

 

The books come from only a few places, so far.  Dorian has orders going to every library in the civilized world, and a few in Ferelden besides.  He’s had tables moved from anywhere he can pull them - they line the walls and make islands of candlelight in the room.  Requisitions has cleared out a room for him in the cellars.  It’s large and the architecture eats up ambient sound, and that’s all Dorian cares about.

Dorian walks between the tables, a large wisp floating about his head illuminating pages at a thought.  He’s borrowed a writing board from Josephine, and he flips through pages to line up the beginnings of theories.  There are so many fairy tales and myths that feed off of lies and superstition.  His notes begin to blur in front of him with the magnitude of false starts he foresees, with the frustration that he knows is in his way.

He stops, making sure that his back is to the pervasive purple glow, and he breathes.  His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose and then rub his eyelids.  He hasn’t worn any cosmetics since word reached him of Trevelyan’s predicament.  Too many minutes where he could be engaged, not to mention how often he finds himself rubbing his face.  It would only be a waste.

It is only the beginning of his study.  He’s better than this, and has better motivation than ever in his life.  Dorian fills his lungs until they ache, holding his breath as he turns around, only releasing it when he locks eyes with the _thing_ wearing his lover’s flesh.

The demon holds Its silence, head cocking to the side in a motion completely foreign to the Inquisitor, and blinks slowly.  Dorian continues to exhale, the world slowing to a stop between the two of them successfully alone in their own reality.  His eyes begin watering and he realizes he he hasn’t blinked, until he turns away and he wipes away tears that, he will deny forever, are the result of emotion.

 

*

 

That night Dorian stays, staring at the demon until the small hours of the morning.  He waits to hear the midnight guard change and for the early morning servants to begin moving around in the kitchens just down the hall. After he turns his back on the silent no-blinking game.  He grabs a bottle of _something_ from the Inquisitor’s private stash on the way out of the cellars.  He takes his prize with him as he steals into the Inquisitor’s chambers, which to Dorian’s delight and dismay still smell like the man he loves.

He drinks the whole bottle, only marked Grey, and watches the sun rise over pristine snowfall.

He doesn’t cry.

 

***

 

**Day Five**

_My requests are beginning to arrive, and with them their own tomes of letters all asking the same question in a hundred different ways: Why?  I’ll leave that to the Inquisition's advisors; that’s what they do._

_As to my new sources: I certainly have my work cut out for me.  With Madame de Fer off to rule her Chantry, I am at a loss for assistance.  But this isn’t the first time impossible odds and I have had a go._

_The demon has kept Its tongue, but it’s reaching the point where it won’t matter.  Every time I face It, It’s staring at me.  I anticipate a confrontation soon, though I won’t hazzard a guess to the manner of it.  Whatever It tries, I can and will resist._

*

 

Dorian’s constantly aware of the demon’s eyes as they trail him about the tables.  And every once in awhile he finds his attention drawn out of the pages and lingering on the, artfully, slumped body of Trevelyan.  His back leans up against the glow of the barrier backlighting himself, though the overall glow of his enclosure keeps him from being completely obscured.

The mage sighs, looking everywhere but at the creature daring him to.  Dorian knows, from numerous other circuits of the room which were less successful in keeping his attention on his work, that the demon has kept the same posture throughout the day.  Trevelyan must be screaming inside.  He wonders if the demon can hear him.

He steels himself, knowing that one day or another he’ll have to break the silence in the course of his study.

 

*

 

Sera and Blackwall look up when Dorian enters the Herald’s Rest, the first from her bannister perch and the other from his table, both with their own version of a smile.  He can hear The Iron Bull and the Chargers creating a ruckus; a last safe hurrah before they head out on mission in the morning.

Dorian, a mug of bitter Ferelden ale in hand, joins Blackwall and sees that Cassandra is also there.  She doesn’t smile, but she nods and then grunts when Sera drops onto the table to join them.

“Thought ya were lost to darkness, Ser Magisnot,” Sera says easily, stealing a gulp of his drink before she settles on the other side of the Seeker.

“I have heard it told that I am a delicate, hot-house flower.  I do need sunlight every now and again.” Dorian snarks back, but only with half the smile he would normally shine.

“Regardless, it is good to see you out and about.  I have been told you let your head get stuck to the books, but I had not noticed.  Too many other things pulling us to and fro,” Cassandra says as she moves her own drink away from Sera’s cleverly grasping fingers.

Blackwall, apparently out of goodwill, slides his drink over to Sera before he gives Dorian’s shoulder a brief, though strong, squeeze.  “You’re doing the right thing, an endeavor that should have been pursued long ago.”

Dorian, more than a little surprised at Blackwall’s support, can only take another drink and shrug.

“I am not sure it has not.” Cassandra sounds thoughtful. “Though it does seem unlikely.  You would think at least _one_ of us would have heard of it.”

“Yea, well, ‘s not like any of _us_ have much dealin’ with fricking abominations, yeah?” Sera comes up for air and to put in her two coppers.  “You want, I could put out with the Jennies.  Look for illegal magic shite-books and what.”

“Well, it’s as likely a source as any.  Blackwall’s right.  We can’t be the first to look at someone--” his voice doesn’t crack, it _doesn’t_ , but he does need to clear his throat and swallow thickly. “Someone of worth who’s been possessed.  There has to be something, somewhere.  And we’re missing it!”

“You mean without a cadre of mages and their questions.” Blackwall says, almost by way of ending the conversation.  No one mentions his lapse or his wording, and he’s grateful.  Instead, they talk about increasingly inane places where this lore could be hiding.  His personal favorite, and he suspect’s Sera’s, is Cassandra’s sarcastic remark that it must be hiding up some First Enchanter’s ass.

 

***

 

**Day Eight**

_Today I re-draw the wards.  Typically a ten day rotation would suffice, but I don’t trust this demon nor my own attention to attend to anything amiss.  The Templars guard the entrance to the room, up and down the halls, and are typically within shouting distance; I foresee little issue.  If nothing else the Templars will restrain It until I’m done._

_Research is slow.  I’m not even sure what it is I’m looking for.  In lieu of any advances for my cause, I have made a couple notes regarding a whole abomination, which I will transcribe below for further thought._

_1- It appears to not need to eat, though the host goes through wasting if left unnourished.  We noticed that it was consuming less after the first couple of days in captivity.  It persisted for a week in which time the [the script is smudged and shaky here] host lost a noteworthy amount of weight and was marked with poor complexion and was no longer using the available chamber pot._

_Note: we have since succeeded in convincing the demon to feed and clean itself.  In exchange it is allowed one hour alone with me per ward cycle.  (today will be the first go, so I will make notes to follow.)  Though it hasn’t used the chamber pot once._

_2- It is, obviously, capable of sitting stock still for extended periods of time.  And of holding Its eyes open.  I once watched It and Cole stare at each other for near an hour and, unless by some divine coincidence we were all blinking at the same moment, neither appeared to blink or move to my eye._

*

 

The Templars clank out of the room shortly after the wards are disrupted.  Cullen’s the last to exit, a dubious glance in salutation instead of words.  Dorian only replies with a tired smile and a small shrug.  The Commander has a sand-glass to keep time with.  Once they’re back in the room, all of Dorian’s attention will be to re-establishing the artistry and strength of the wards.

It’s smiling at him; that smile that is Trystan’s but with far too much teeth.  And Its eyes are narrow and slow-blinking.  It inhales, nostrils flaring.

Dorian picks up the first book nearest to his fingertips, he doesn’t notice that it’s one he rejected yesterday but hasn’t evicted yet.  He flips through the pages, obviously not looking as he hasn’t broken eye contact with the demon.  “Well, are you only to watch me work?” His gaze falls to the pages, his brow furrowing in distraction.  Then his eyebrows raise and recognition makes him snap the book shut and cross the room to the door.  He puts the book down, his back is to the demon now, and he exhales, “Going to sabotage me?  Try to, at any rate.”

“Oh,” a dry breath tickles the back of his neck, “I’ve nothing so elaborate prepared.”

Dorian doesn’t need to see Its face to know It’s smiling, the one that holds none of Trevelyan in it.  His head spins, so fast his neck cracks, before the rest of him follows, so he sees the hands that grab him before he’s embraced.  Then he’s held in a bruising grip, one that has so much more strength than he’s accustomed to.  He can almost feel Its grip pressing into his bones.

It’s close, too close, surrounding him in longed-for warmth and pulling him closer.  It’s left the Inquisitor’s tunic unbuttoned, Its pants slung low.  Dorian feels two lovely points of friction pass down his shoulders, under his arms, and around to grip at his back.  He breathes through his need to melt into the embrace.

Breathe in; the smell is too much.  Breathe out; his hand forms the first gesture for a forceful push.  Breathe in; shiver in memory.  Breathe out; shove outward, channeling mana away from him.  The demon stumbles back a few paces, Its hands breaking their grip on his back, a snarl on Its face.

Breathe in; warm, strong hands are back on him, lifting him into the air.  Breathe out; a blur before he bounces off the wall and onto a table, knocking several texts to the floor.  Dorian tries to inhale, but his chest is locking up and his head is radiating pain and he can’t move to sit up.  Another instant later, he’s being picked up again, seated at the edge of the table, propped against a muscled chest.  A voice growls in his ear, but he can hardly hear past the ringing in his head.

“Oh Dorian, sweet, precious Dorian.  We’re going to have such fun!”  Hot hands clasp to his hips and pull him forward, grinding their hips together.  It’s hard against him and Dorian finds his mind drifting to very vivid memories of what Trystan can _do_ with that hard flesh.  It’s still speaking when Dorian’s mind comes back, each thought a little clearer as his breath comes deeper.  “You want that, don’t you, amatus?”

Dorian jerks, trying to wrench away from the too-strong grip, the disconnect too much.  “All--” he breathes in as deeply as he can, “all I need to do is be loud enough.”

“That’s the idea, darling.” The demon all but purrs into his ear.  Dorian knows that It’s reading his face when It goes on, “In all seriousness, sweetness, I do _in fact_ know that you would rather kill your lover than let me any measure of freedom.” Its face softens, looking more and more like Trystan with each shaky breath.  “But that doesn’t mean you can’t have any.”

Fingers dance up his back, run through his hair, clever fingers clutching at him.  Dorian’s lips pop apart as his breath quickens, tongue tipping out to wet his lips.  As it dips back in, Its tongue follows, hot and wet and gentle.  They trade places, back and forth, sharing breath and space.  Dorian’s hands slide across his own thighs and up to hold It closer, hands spread out across the velvety fabric.

“You want this, don’t you?” The demon’s hand slides down to cup his cheek, and he feels his head nod up and down.  He’s not sure if the demon is moving him or if he’s willingly giving consent.  But It seem’s to accept the motion as his admission.  The hand tightens in his hair, pulling his head back sharply.  Its mouth, which tastes like the young apples that came with breakfast, moves wetly down his chin to stop on his throat.  Teeth sink into him above the hollow there and he jerks again, thrashing as It starts to nip and suck, giving life to a livid bruise.

Dorian cries out as he hastens through the motions to get It _away_ from him.  The spell’s not strong enough to move It, but It’s stunned long enough for Dorian to see as Templars rush the room.  A smite rushes the room and Dorian falls back against the wall, faint and dizzy.

“Hold him,” Cullen barks out, moving directly for Dorian who allows himself to be hauled up and set onto unsteady feet.  Cullen stands with one hand holding Dorian up and the other pointing Templars about the room, righting everything that the two of them knocked over.  Once Dorian stops shaking, he lets go, though he stays close.  “Set the wards, Dorian,” he says as quietly as he can while remaining firm and presses a shimmering blue vial into the mage’s hand.

Before he can think about it too much, Dorian slams the lyrium back and sets to work on the sigils for the barrier.  He doesn’t look up, he ignores the Templars, and he ignores the giggling that sounds both so right and so foreign.  He ignores the fact that anyone in the room can see how aroused the demon is, even after all this time and with all the additions to the room.  He tries to, at any rate.

Once everything is in place, Dorian slumps against a table while Cullen hands out orders.  Two men at the doors at all times, two more down the hall, and they are to check on _any_ suspicious activity.

Wonderful.

Cullen motions for Dorian to follow him and so, with nothing better to do than face the consequences, Dorian does.  

 

*

 

“What in the name of the _Maker_ were you _thinking_ , Dorian?”  The Commander of the Inquisition’s forces did, apparently, not earn his place by resting.  But Dorian knows this.  They’ve been playing chess for too long, living in too close of proximity for him not to have heard the Templars and other troops training under him.  When Dorian doesn’t immediately answer, he waits.

Finally, with a shrug of a shoulder, Dorian slumps against a wall.  He’s tired and achy, and not only from the smite, and he wants _desperately_ to get back to work.

Cullen keeps a neutral gaze on Dorian’s face, and Dorian is reminded of his father.  Halward never was one to yell when, instead, he could guilt something out of you with a glance.  Cullen, though, lacks the underlying malice.  He just looks like he’s waiting and like he’s prepared to wait as long as it takes.

“I had the situation well in hand, Commander,” Dorian says, steeling himself for any and all recriminations.

“I can see how _in hand_ you were, Dorian.” Cullen’s gaze softens and Dorian winces under the sympathy.

“Nothing happened, Cullen. Everything was under control.” Dorian still can’t make eye contact. “Not to mention, it’s important to know what It thinks It can get away with,” he lies.

Cullen doesn’t move.  He just ploughs on, “ _If_ this is to ever happen again, _if_ we are to allow him free range with you, I need to know that you’ll alert us if you can’t handle it.”  He’s trying to catch Dorian’s eye again.

“It won’t. The demon wanted to push, to see how far we’d let it go.  But It’s smart. It won’t try again.”  Dorian allows himself the space of two breaths to calm down.  “It won’t happen again, Commander.  You have my word.” 

Cullen doesn’t even pretend to believe him.

 

***

 

**Day Twelve**

_The Jennies have turned up something interesting; a last resort.  It seems that the Avvar, at least in their legends, have a ritual that might work.  It must be performed by one of their shamans, however, so that is a battle for another day.  Besides, the grimoire won’t arrive for a few more days.  Crows fly faster than anything on four legs._

_After the warding debacle, I spent a couple of days in the library.  In fact, I’m near to done with discerning which texts will be useful in the future.  I long for days of tables uncluttered by useless words that have been censored by arrogant, mindless Chantry-lead fools._

_Pardon me, amatus, I have no excuse.  I have plenty of reasons; I’m beyond tired.  I’m sick to death of seeing you and it not being you.  I’ve never felt so alone, no matter that I’ve never had so many who I could call actual friends.  Everyone but I still go out with Cassandra on missions, and she might be the only one who understands my weariness._

_I saw her in the surgeon’s the other day.  She has a new scar that runs across her chest from shoulder to hip.  It’s amazing she’s alive.  It’s amazing any of us are alive._

_Nothing really to report today.  The demon remains the same.  My research is at a stand still until I know exactly which texts will yield fruit.  At least when we sought Corypheus’ true name I had you as a distraction.  I had missions and joy as distractions._

_Since this entry is useless I’ll say here that I’ll go be maudlin elsewhere.  Amatus, please don’t hate me._

***

 

**Day Thirteen**

_I’ve finally rid myself of the effluvia. There’s still a decent pile of texts to go through, but it’s far more manageable now.  I plan to send an appeal to Mae within the next few days.  It is inexcusable, I should think, that my own homeland has refused to send any aid at all.  I know that she has been incredibly busy, but I need better resources than those left unburnt by the cloistered masses._

_This certainly feels like the lineage search all over again.  As I suspected, plenty of false starts and hollow leads, but I do feel as though I have a solid working theory.  It may be as simple as a less-than-simple potion and a series of glyphs.  That is, if the Circle College of Cumberland is to be trusted._

_The demon has taken to wander about in the nude.  First It was only the loss the the jacket and shirt, understandable one would suppose, until It was only in its smalls.  Then nothing.  I’ve worked the wards to shrink the space, watching as It was forced to sit, half hard and smiling,_

_On another note: I’m looking into different binding methods.  If I can allow It some autonomy, perhaps I can bargain with It.  At the very least It can move around and maybe stop staring at me._

_This can, and most likely will, backfire._

 

*

 

”You know I’ll not allow you to leave, but if you can be proven to behave perhaps we can work out better accommodations for the duration.” Dorian stands bathed in purple as he faces the abomination wearing his lover’s skin.

Instead of answering, the creature smiles. “I know what makes you tick, Dorian Pavus.  Word travels.  I know _everything_ about your desires, and now I know all he knows as well.” Trevelyan’s smile stretches his face, ever so slightly wrong.  He moves to stand nose to nose with Dorian.  

It pings in Dorian’s heart.  Trystan’s smile was one of the first things that attracted him to the man.  After his competency with swords and swooping in at the right second.  “Yes,” he clears his throat, “it’s all the same, I suppose.  Who would you be if you could behave?  It’s best for us all that you stay in a cage where you belong." 

“Your wards are not nearly as strong as your will.  And the delectable Madame de Fer is no longer here to shore up your shortcomings, if the whisperings are to be believed.” The smile is still in place but It leans back into a casual stance.

“My wards will have to suffice, then, won’t they?” Dorian turns away and makes a note to talk to Josephine about the servants who work in the kitchens keeping out of this room.

“Dorian,” It calls out in Trystan’s voice, “please, you can’t imagine what it’s like.”

The mage puts his writing board down, places his hands flat on the table, exhales.  And then he flips to the next page of the grimoire he is currently combing for new information.

“Love, please, I just want to help you. 

“How—” Dorian’s voice breaks despite his best efforts, he starts again, “how can you help me, demon?  You won’t even tell me how you claimed him.” 

Trevelyan’s face smiles but it still isn’t his smile.  “I only want to give you everything you want.  Anything.  Same as your love.” The demon speaks in its own voice.

Dorian gets as close as he can, hands pressed hard against the barrier between them, his face pulled back only so his nose isn’t. “Tell me what you promised him, tell me how you took him!”  His hands are flat against the barrier, pressed hard and fighting against curling, in his desperation.  

“He doesn’t want me to.  He doesn’t think you would still _love_ him, should you know.”  The sneer is entirely out of character for the face that makes it.  Dorian wonders if it hurts.

“The Maker couldn’t make me stop loving him, why do you think you have that power?”  Dorian ignores that it’s Trystan who wants him in the dark.  A demon can twist anything, least of all good intent.

“I promised you wouldn’t leave him.  That I could _fix_ Tevinter and keep you at his side.”  The demon trails a well-known finger down his side of the barrier, rubbing back and forth in a manner that looks obscene.  He almost feels it on him.

Dorian scoffs, pushing himself away and back to his work, muttering to himself.  This was not a conversation he would have with an abomination before his lover.  It’s not a conversation he would prefer to have at all.

 

*

 

The Herald’s Rest is warm, much warmer than his ‘dungeon’ lab.  Not surprising, he supposes, given the raging hearth fire and the constant rotation of hot bodies through the space.  Varric sits next to him at the counter, keeping up to date with the goings on of the Inquisition.  Cassandra has been leading field missions but, other than that, not much else has changed.  

Vivienne left a week or so past with hardly a ripple to daily life. 

“She left you a few volumes.  They’re on the desk in her _solar_ , as she’s so fond of calling it.” Varris makes a face that might be VIvienne if one squints. “She was insistent that you go yourself.  Mentioned worrying about your complexion.” The writer shrugged as he tipped his mug back.

“Yes, she would worry about me, wouldn’t she?”  Dorian just twists his own glass of wine between his fingers, apparently disinterested in the _fine_ _red_ Cabot had found for him.  “I believe I shall miss her.”

“Sparkler!  Well, I can’t say I’m completely surprised.  I thought the two of you would spawn gorgeous hate-babies before too much longer.” He laughs into his cup, his eyes gaining that far-off look he gets when he’s composing.

“Oh no!” Dorian protests, a somewhat serious look plaguing him. “I’m not a villain for fodder.  Enough of my countrymen are cast as the villain, you can do better than that!” Dorian declares with a flourish.

“Never said the villainess and the _hero_ can’t get along, at some point.” Varric smiles at him, a wry grin over his mug that could mean many things.

Dorian can’t think of a response, so he drinks, and is thankful for the company, even if it isn’t helping him work towards his goal.  The Inquisitor is well kept and his research will continue whether or not the rest of the Inner Circle can help him at all.  Varric can fulfill other needs.  He must remember that he is more than a dark room lit in glowing purple.

 

*

 

Dorian,

Please be a darling and see that these tomes are well taken care of.  I find that they are not fitting to the library of the Divine, but they may be of use to you.  I do so have high hopes for you and our distinguished friend.

The Maker has strange plan for all of us, even you.  Even I.  I’d never believed that, at the beginning of this venture, that we would be where we are.  That I would find a kindred soul in a mage from Tevinter.  (Please be sure to burn this missive so as to keep our little secret)

Do keep me apprised of the situation as it progresses.  And if there is anything I can do to give aid, I will.

Vivienne

 

***

 

**Day Sixteen**

Sera and The Iron Bull are there the next time the wards come down, both with determination and fear on their faces.  Dorian finds himself glad that, despite the latter, they’re with him.  He knows that they both wouldn’t do anything to impede him, no matter how they feel about demons.  Cole flits in and out of the room actually checking in with each of them.  His words less jumbled, easy to understand because everyone’s minds are on the same topic.

The demon behaves, only barely.  It rubs against Dorian and, with less reaction, The Iron Bull.  Sera, uncharacteristically, doesn’t shrink from his nakedness.  She keeps her eyes pointed up, narrowed and angry, and twirls an arrow in her deft hands.  It doesn’t talk.  Most of the time, none of them do.

Dorian works.  He’s putting together an itinerary, which will be finalized by Josephine, for an exploratory trip to Rivain.  If they have a way of binding spirits, they must have a way of binding a demon within its host.  

He writes a short letter to the new Divine of congratulations and thanks.  He does hope no one poisons her.

 

***

 

**Day Eightteen**  

_Vivienne has left me a couple of rather insightful tomes.  I told Varric that I would miss her, and I truly think I shall.  Despite our differences, well, it’s always nice to have another sharp mind to bounce ideas off of.  I’ve added her contribution to the shelf that has promise._

_Thus far I am looking into various glyph and potion combinations as well as lore from Rivain (thank you Vivienne) and the lead with the Avvar.  Other sources of lore are too muddled, too covered in chantry, White and Black, prejudice.  I never thought that I would see the day where I was lamenting my own mage-centric culture!  You would think that the great minds before me would have some viable thoughts on this._

_But no, none of the thinkers who built Tevinter have thought of nor bastardized anything about the possessed.  Which boggles the mind, considering._

*

 

Dorian isn’t ignoring Sera, standing at the door with a bowl full of something.  He is, however, deeply entrenched in his current reading; a finger raised so that she knows he sees her while he traces the fading script with his other hand.  With a leather strap, he marks his place he turns to the excitable elf.

She’s staring at the demon who is staring, unblinking, at him.  Dorian knows, by the length of candle burned away, that he’s been deep in his thoughts for several hours, and he allows the thought to pass through his head this the demon has been staring at his back the whole time.  He shivers.

“Varric said you’d been holed up too long.” She held out the bowl in her arms, it was full of cookies.  “I didn’t make them.” A sour smile screwed up her face, only slightly mocking.

“Yes, despite evidence to the obvious, I do learn from past mistakes.” He says, taking one from the top and giving it an apprising sniff.  “It certainly doesn’t _smell_ of anything foul.”  He says it with a smile, which she returns.

“Good, we’re all arse over head worried that you’d flipped a bit, yeah?” She shifts from foot to foot and eyes the candles, which have begun to gutter.

“Not _flipped_ , as you say, just focused.  We all know the Inquisition will continue on, no matter who leads.  But we owe him this.”  Dorian didn’t realize how enraged he sounded until he turned back to the archer.

“No one said we didn’t, _ser_ , but maybe some one the _rest_ of us worry about _you_ too!”  She looks like she wants to stomp away, but instead only clenches her fists under the bowl.

Dorian takes it from her, setting on the table nearest them.  “I apologize.  That was unworthy of you.  I don’t mean to imply that no one else is aware of my,” he pauses to clear his throat and his head, bringing a hand up to cradle his forehead, “dedication to the subject.  It’s been a trial, and I hate to leave Trevelyan alone with the thing in him for any longer than I have to.”

Sera’s hands, now unoccupied, clench together behind her back and her quick smile stops him in his tracks.  “Yes, well, maybe it’s the rest of us miss him too, yeah?  Get your arse in a bench for dinner, let the rest of us poke the arsehole riding him.  Maybe we can annoy it out.  Maybe it’ll give up and frig off when it sees we’re not gonna let it win.”  She rocks back on her heels and points out the door with her chin, “Get something hot in ya before all Quizzie’s got left ta come back to is one a your corpsey things.” She shuddered, but smiled while doing so.

 

*

 

“Sparkler!  I knew she’d light a fire under your ass!” Varric’s face lights up to see the two of them enter the tavern.  He moves his chair over a bit to accommodate more seats around the table.

The Iron Bull and Blackwall get up in tandem, Blackwall with an encouraging smile and Bull with a sharp clap to Dorian’s shoulder, and head to the bar.  Dorian sits between Varric and Sera, his back to the rest of the room, and watches as Cassandra stands and crosses past him.

“Thank you,” she says with a squeeze to his shoulder, “I am sorry that the Seekers have nothing to offer you.”

Dorian only nods in answer, which she returns before she heads out the door.

“Seeker drew the long straw,” Varric says by way of explanation.

Bull and Blackwall return with refreshed drink for everyone and Dorian is more than a little impressed with how quickly things begin to feel normal between them.  Even with the rotation of table mates and two years since the last they could all just _be_ together.  Even some of the Chargers come over to fill empty spots as other of the inner circle go to visit their unlucky leader. 

The conversation flows over Dorian.  He doesn’t have much to add to the conversation, but he finds enjoyment in listening to how their lives have progressed.  Two years of adventures and life and loves and heartbreaks and hangovers.  The hours pass farther into the night than Dorian knows is wise, but he can’t tear himself away.  It feels warm.

 

***

 

**Day Twenty-one**

_I’ve found more than a few possible glyph combinations.  And Dagna is assembling the potion for me as it contains several volatile ingredients.  Her work gives me a couple more days to double check my own.  None of this should be lethal to Trevelyan, but one can never be too careful._

*

 

Dorian wants to leave the room.  Wants to scream in frustration.  Wants to _make_ the demon say something.  Instead he stands in front of the barrier, hands clenched painfully at his sides, and stares back in silence.  It’s been only a handful of minutes since he abandoned his studies for the day, the candles burning low leaving only the barrier and his wisps as light.  The shadows they cast are not kind.

He wonders if Trystan feels how dry his eyes get when the demon pulls his no-blinking trick.  If he longs to close or rub them.  He resists rubbing his own.  He resists a lot of things lately.

The demon smiles that smile that is half Trystan and all wrong and steps up to the edge of the barrier, trails a hand down a naked torso and up the glowing wall between them, settles into one leg.  It speaks with his eyes, however, the magic obfuscating the demonic glow in them.  They plead, untainted by irony and mocking.  And they look at him as Trevelyan did in the mornings, warm and open.

Dorian leaves.

 

***

 

**Day Twenty-two**  

_[several damp splotches stain the paper]_

 

*

 

Dorian does not get out of bed.

 

***

 

**Day Twenty-three**

_Mae, may the Maker bless her meddling heart, has intervened, on my behalf mind you, with the Magisterium.  My lack of attendance is being excused in light of the service I am, apparently, providing all of Mage-kind._

_She told them about us._

_Not who you are, or anything as truly shocking as that, but that I had landed my hands on an abomination whom we sought to cure without the currently prescribed methods.  Can you imagine their faces, amatus?_

_Delightful, I should think._

_Anyway, it seems that we have the good graces of Tevinter, at least.  Cullen mentioned something about assassination attempts, it seems this Templar problem just won’t go away, and has made room in his roster for more guards.  For us.  Since we are the targets._

_How they found out about us I’ve yet to find out.  I’m sure the Commander will tell me when I need to know.  It’s a good thing, however, that we are ensconced in the heart of Skyhold.  No place safer, it would seem._

_Oh, Mae is also petitioning for special dispensation for more Inquisition forces within the Imperium.  To help weed out any Ventatori within the current Magisterium.  We’ll see how this goes._

_If we both live through this and he remains ridden, then I will be requisitioning one spell of Rivaini origin so that It and I can take to the road.  To Rivain, with hope to find their hedge-witches and wise women._

 

*

 

Dagna delivers the potion to him in the small hours of the morning, just as the sky is turning purple.  It looks like clay, though viscous, and the phial is far heavier than he supposes it should be.

The Templars take away the empty bottle with the breakfast dishes.

He’s tightened the area of the barrier to only accommodate a body standing stock still, pressing up against all sides of It. The newest glyphs shine brightly against the cobblestone.  Dorian knows he’s rushing things, knows that he should double and triple check his already exhausted sources.  He doesn’t.  If this can be over tonight, he wants it over _now_.  

So he draws the glyphs with a steady hand, ignoring the stare of the caged demon.  Ignoring the itch behind his eyes.  Once done, he waits.  He watches the body of the man he loves, and he mourns now so that he won’t have to later.  He says the rites in his head because he has no prayers left.

He counts the bells as the day wears on, waiting for the potion to suffuse the abomination’s tissue.  Waiting for the runes to change to the same sparkling grey that the potion was.  waiting to hear Trystan’s voice.

It happens sooner than Dorian expects.  By nearly two bells.  He exhales and the glyphs fade in intensity.  He drops the barrier and doesn’t smile as the demon falls to Its knees. A low keening scrapes through the room as Trystan’s shoulders drop at an odd angle towards the floor.  His borrowed voice scratches into a growl, causing chills to course through Dorian, until it fades into a rough laugh.

“That’s not bad, little _Altus_.” The demon wears no masks, every feature of Trevelyan is alien and strange to Dorian.  “Too bad that method died with Arlathan.  That magic lost like so many others.”  It wears a cruel smile.

Dorian slams the barrier back in place, gesturing for the glyphs to reactivate.  He closes his eyes, breathes through his nose, says a prayer of thanks to the Maker.  He’s not sure what the thanks is for.

 

***

 

**Day Twenty-nine**

_Instructions (a hedge-witch) have come from Rivain (lucky for us she’s been slumming it in Jader) for a lyrium-laced tattoo that will bind the demon within Trevelyan’s body, with no access to Its powers or the fade.  It is activated by a potion containing lyrium, elfroot, and dawn lotus, which must be administered every third day.  Touching the tattoo with mana will also work but the effect doesn’t last as long and becomes unpredictable after a while.  It does not, however, suppress the presence of the demon.  So it is a temporary fix a best.  And, aside from eventual lyrium addiction, it is what we are planning to use for our travels._

*

 

It’s not as hard to watch his lover receive the tattoo as he anticipated, even that minimal stimuli has the demon on edge.  Dorian does Trystan the courtesy of not looking away as the old witch from Rivain cuts into Its back and neck, each new line of red disappearing under black ink that shimmers with blue.  For being apparently ancient her hands are steady and her gestures sure.  Dorian, who’s sat through this on a much smaller scale, fights the urge to hold Its hand.

To Its credit, the demon doesn’t fight when the Templars restrain It nor when the old woman begins her work.  The tattoo, regardless of its purpose, is beautiful.  Her practiced hands carve lines that curl around each other in a pattern of bondage that Dorian only knows to call it that because it’s in the name.  It takes only about an hour to finish her art, but then it needs to heal.  

She gives him a pouch of powder, every day he needs to rub more over the healing cuts.  Everyday until they’re healed completely, without magical aid.  It should take about four days, with the raw lyrium acting as a conduit for healing.

They wait until then to activate it.

 

***

 

**Day Thirty-three**

_Our anniversary has come and gone, amatus, and the only thing that’s changed is that our un-\desired guest is allowed to roam the room with me.  If only he would roam.  No, he hangs over me, I’m draped with limbs amatus!  I hope, when we get you home, you’ll forgive me for the dreams we both know I’m having._

_[Ink splatters here]_

_My apologies, I must be in the company of The Iron Bull far too often of late.  Not only did I make a joke to make myself feel better.  And making a poor job of staying on topic.  (In all seriousness, I should have rebuffed the first time, but it smells like you, amatus, and I know my weaknesses)._

_We are packing for Rivain; Sera and Cole are accompanying us.  It is safer this way.  We only finished the amulet a couple of days ago.  First Dagna inspected it, on Cassandra’s insistence.  And then Cole took a turn, on my own inspiration.  And it seems to be working perfectly_

_We leave before the week is out._

*

 

”Thank you for letting me out.  I was beginning to worry that you’d gone and given up on me, darling.”  It hasn’t uttered beloved since Dorian stopped freezing at its use.

“Well, it is hard to travel with cargo that’s struck immobile.” The mage says in the absent minded way that isn’t absent and instead completely forced.

“But,” It shifts Its limbs around, leaning heavily on Dorian and rubbing a growing erection against his hip, “think of the benefits, love.  It won’t be long now.”

Dorian shivers, his face screwing up in frustration and disgust. The empty vial sits by the door, traces of a weak lyrium potion still within.

 

*

 

Josephine is overseeing the caravan as it’s packed and repacked.  She wants to make sure that there’s enough of _anything_ they might need on their expedition.  She has an envelope filled with other envelops all marked with various copies of paperwork that allow them all kinds of access and leeway and rights, their itinerary in on top.  This will go with Dorian, if only he would show up at the stables so that she could brief him.

“I do apologize for my tardiness, Ambassador, packing is harder than I thought it would be.” Dorian says by way of greeting, The Iron Bull and Krem following him each carrying a trunk which they set beside the first wagon.

“There are others who could have packed for the Inquisitor—”  Her face doesn’t show any irritation when Dorian cuts her off.

“I know,” he says with a sigh, “but I needed to. 

“And besides, shouldn’t he be given as much privacy as possible?  The Boss, I mean,” Krem speaks up, nudging Bull into nodding agreement.

“Have you finalized who’s _going_ on this trip?” Bull asks, even while nodding, his eye sharp. 

Josephine nods as well, “I understand the need for privacy, but I also understand the strain this has put on Dorian.” She hold out her arm to him which he takes, but not in the way intended, and squeezes her hand.  “And yes, Iron Bull, if you don’t mind?” She waves him off to the side with the same hand that Dorian refused.

“Bull’s not going, is he?” Dorian asks, sidling up to Krem.

“Don’t think so, but he likes to know everything,” The Chargers’ lieutenant replies.  “You know the chief, he’s nosy like that.”

Dorian nods, he’s familiar with Bull’s particular brand of nosy, has been ever since the first time he and Trystan kissed.  It was like Bull could smell them on each other, the way his face split into a jovial leer.

“I don’t think we could _stop_ Cole from joining us.  Sera might come.  I think Blackwall will come, the Lady Seeker is too busy running the Inquisition now.” Dorian thinks through the rest of them; obviously Lelianna and Cullen have other obligations and he wouldn’t ask Bull to leave the Chargers, though he knows that Bull would come with them without complaint if he did, Solas and Vivienne are gone and Varric is already on his way back to running his city.

“Sera might have something for that sea sickness you’ve complained about,” Krem adds, one eye still on Bull and Josephine.

“She might.”  He knows she does, but he’s as dubious about it as he was of her in the beginning.  But he’s more than prepared to suffer for the three weeks of sailing.

Iron Bull and Josephine are on their way back so Krem, who looks like he has more to say, leans against the wagon wheel and crosses his arms.

“I’d like to go with you,” Bull says, going straight to the issue.

“I can’t stop you,” Dorian says, wincing when he hears his tone of voice. “What I mean to say is, we’d be delighted, I hope you like boats.”

The Iron Bull just smiles.

 

***

 

**Day Thirty-six**  

_The road is, as always, some variation of unbearable and complaint-worthy.  That being said, I can think of little to complain of that isn’t riding Its horse far too close to mine and regaling me with the story of Trevelyan’s life.  All of the sordid little details that you’ve kept to yourself, that we’ve agreed to let lie as we’re neither one saints._

_Sera and Cole, thankfully, are keeping an awkward and blessedly silent truce.  It helps that Bull and Blackwall are along, they’re oddly adept at keeping the peace.  We have a small retinue of people, mostly a few soldiers and staff to make sure everything stays in its place.  Two Templars, also, are with us.  Just in case.  Two that Ser Barris and Cullen trust implicitly._

_Aside from being unpleasantly cold and harsh, the road is uneventful.  It’s only a little more than a week to make it to the port in Jader, we stay the night in town and cast off with the morning tide.  I’m hopeful of a swift journey and smooth seas.  Not that that will help me._

_The demon has a tendency to ignore everyone else with us, and I have yet to find out what each of them did with their time alone with It.  I suppose it’s not important._

_The second dose of lyrium mixture was administered today.  None of us are sure how the addiction will set in.  Having spoken with Cullen, there’s not much to go on.  He hadn’t been told of the effects of lyrium before he joined the Order, and even afterwards it was a dirty little secret.  He doesn’t even remember having any issues or knowing there were issues until he heard the Knight Commander restricted another Templar’s ration as a punishment._

_But they, supposedly, take lyrium every day.  I don’t know how this schedule, or the lessened strength of the dose, will affect the rate of addiction.  Can he even become addicted while possessed?  We’ll find out if—when we succeed._

 

*

 

The dock isn’t heaving beneath his feet, though his insides tell him he’s a liar.  The ship sits calmly, the waves rolling against it, as their luggage is loaded into the hold.  Trevelyan stands beside him, his tattoo glowing, and the Bull is behind them.  Sera and Cole are exploring the ship while Blackwall speaks with the captain.

“And how does the mighty Iron Bull plan to stop me should I decide to make a harem of the crew?”  The demon slithers an arm around Dorian’s waist, Its face lifting to watch the Tal-Vashoth behind them.  Dorian doesn’t try to pull away, knowing it’s useless.  It would either begin another altercation and Bull would kill It, or whatever Dorian would do wouldn’t be enough to push It away anyway.

“Relieve your body of its head,” The Bull says, calm as can be.

 

*

 

The Waking Sea is calm, the sky is clear, and the winds are cooperating and they make port In Ostwick a day ahead of schedule.    Their next boat leaves whenever they make it on deck, so they waste no time with a night on land and hire hands to cart everything from one end of the marina to the other.  Their next voyage is longer, nearing a fortnight to make port in Llomerynn and then a ferry across to the Rivaini mainland.

Dorian knows how miserable he is on the relatively calm waters between land.  He’s not excited, to say the least, of being out in the open ocean.  But Sera’s remedy turns out to be not _too_ terrible, the main side effect is being gassy.  But that’s certainly better than curled around a bucket in his room.  Though about on parr when it comes to his embarrassment in the face of the crew and his companions.

“We should tie you up in front of the sails!” Sera crows from the rigging when a particularly loud attack takes him.  She’s practicing her shooting while hanging by her feet more than triple her height in the air shooting at dummies on deck. 

“Don’t you worry he might break the sails?  They are only stitched canvas!” The Iron Bull bellows with laughter.  Blackwall joins in with a chuckle, though not unkind, and continues to whittle.

The demon holds him close as he winces, doing his best to ignore the two of them and to remember the _actual_ rules of chess.  He’s trying to teach Cole which is, he should have known, an exercise in futility as the not-a-spirit keeps getting distracted by all the various hurts on board.

The days pass by very much the same.  The crew is generally pleasant to them, but only because the Inquisition _alone_ paid for this expedition as well as the crew’s next.  The lot of them take turns with one, or more, eye on the demon.  And between the sea sickness and the heartache and the demon, Dorian sleeps very little.

 

***

 

**Day Fifty-one**

Mainland Rivain

_Lomerynn was pretty, coastal and bustling.  We spent a few hours working with the local color to find out who it was we needed to search for on the mainland.  The Iron Bull and Sera seem to make the most headway, his ribald nature welcome in the port taverns and shops and her light fingers make short work of tight jaws.  And amid his bellowing laughter and her quick jabs in dock’s slang they find that who we need is not so far away.  Truly only a ferry ride away to the mainland.  There’s a witch who’s familiar with the spell we want to try.  In fact, if local lore is to be believed, she is the great-great-many-times-removed granddaughter of the first witch to succeed at the spell._

_Blackwall and Cole manage the staff, both keeping them on task and honest in their own ways._

_Today is seventh dose of the lyrium draught.  The demon doesn’t seem to show any outward signs of addiction except for a tremor in Its hands.  It’s hard to tell if Its eyes are a symptom of the lyrium or of possession; they are bright.  Not just possession bright and purple, but nearly feverish.  But I’ve never seen someone possessed for so long.  There is so much that hasn’t been addressed in contemporary study._

_When we find a way to end this, I plan to fund a new school to refine it and develop new ways of making this easier._

*

 

They make port in the small hours of the morning.  The sky is only lightening from black to shades of blue.  It’s warm, Dorian relishes in the coastal heat and humidity, even though the sun has yet to rise.  The moons are dipping below the horizon, sinking into the sea, crescent and shining.

The landscape is as different from Orlais and Ferelden as it’s possible to be.  Where Ferelden is colorless and bland, truly only shades of green and brown, Rivain is colorful and smells of the spices that Dorian misses.  And where Orlais is manicured to within an inch of no longer being natural, the Rivaini port is well kept but lush, vines and flowers and mushrooms growing out of and around the town’s buildings.

The smells, Dorian feels he could write a ballad about the scent of spices and incense.  So much of the Southern Chantry is lightly scented, or unscented, candles made of tallow and beeswax.  The smoke is dull.  Here, outside of every structure is a pedestal with a pile of sand and ash with sticks of spent incense quilling out.  Every one has a lit stick spilling cascades of sweet, rich smoke into the air.  The mix with the flowers has Dorian lightheaded and wobbling, especially after being at sea for so long.

The demon helps him stand, an arm around his waist forcing Dorian to grab for Its opposite shoulder or be a rag doll in Its arms.  When Dorian sees their companions faces he pulls away despite everything.  He stumbles, but the fear and anger and distrust in their eyes help him to stand straight.

But, when they find a tavern with empty rooms, he still ends up bunking with It.  And, no matter what Its past attempts have been like, It tries Its level best to drive Dorian insane.  It spends their time in bed like every other night, writhing and nipping and licking at every piece of Dorian that It can unwrap.

Dorian hasn’t slept much on this trip.  But nor has he let the abomination win.  He’s just too tired to keep fighting every advance.  Every touch and word and moment is a possible battle between them, and if he can only win the truly important ones… Well, that’s what he’s going to do.

 

*

 

The witch is as described.  She lives away from the town, whose name none of them have been able to get a straight answer of, between hills in a house in the center of a circle of trees older than all of them put together.  She’s younger than Dorian expected, young enough for Sera to flirt with her whenever she can get a word in, but neither Bull nor Blackwall seem surprised that she is of an age with their mage.

“This is no simple spell you ask of me.” Her Trade is decent and her voice is deep, rich and thick and dark.  Her hair runs wild down her back and she seems to be dressed in a collection of scarves that twine around her, flowing where she needs drama and cinching where she needs distraction, and Dorian doesn’t trust her.

But her information matches with what he’s found, and she fills in the gaps left by translation and error.  So they have little choice.

“Is there a simple spell?” Dorian prods at her. “Truly, some are easy but none are what I would call simple.  If this is a matter of price, name it.”  He almost drops the name of the Inquisition, not that someone in the area can’t identify them, but he doesn’t need to confirm anything.

Her eyes smile while her mouth remains impassive, “A drop of blood from each of you, a lock of hair from the spirit, twenty minutes with the one with the beard, the items on the list I will give you, and thirty gold pieces.”  She rattles off the list as though she knew who would be there and what they would ask of her.

Dorian baulks and they begin to haggle.  The blood is off the table, vehemently, but Cole is willing to part with a piece of his corpus.  Blackwall is concerned but Dorian knows the gleam in his eye, besides that none of them honestly think it’s a part of the price, and Backwall agrees to stay the night.  The list will not be easy, but between them they know they can find everything, and Dorian hands her a pouch with fifty sovereigns.  None of them care about the money.

 

*

 

Two days later, under a black night of no moons, they gather to watch the witch spin her circle.  A fire is lit to the north, bundles of herbs and metals and stones causing colorful flame and sparks to leap from the logs casting the circle in a riot of washed-out color.  Trevelyan stands at the center of the circle, bound in wards and sigils and rope, blue paint on his skin for similar purpose. 

Dorian watches, worried that they’ve deliberately skipped a dose of lyrium, but the witch was adamant.  She was wroth that his last dose was so recent, ranting about how the presence will wreak havoc with her spell.  When she calms down though, she insists that there isn’t a problem.

In the end, the spell is over quickly.  For all of the set up and ritual and reagent; she speaks a few words, draws another sigil on his face with muddy paste from a bowl.  The sigils dries up, as though Trevelyan has a fever, and flakes off into the wind.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she breaks the bowl into the fire, “but your friend has been gone too long for this.”  She unties her hair from the knot at her back, wipes her hands down her belly smearing the paint there, “If you are to try again, with any method you find, you must reach your friend first.  You will never succeed if he’s not there to shove when someone else pulls.”

Cole takes exception to this, flitting across the clearing to stand before her, “I can hear him!” He cries, actual tears streaking his face, “He’s there, stuck in the between, beating the barrier and calling for the sun.  Bronze and warm and loving.  He’s screaming in silence, can’t hear his own voice, but he hears it.  Hears us.  Hears his heart beating, fast and hard, feels the tears he tries to hide.  He’s afraid to sleep, to say anything, to let the _demon_ know he’s awake!”

Dorian cries out now, hiding it in the fact that Cole ends his diatribe by falling into his arms.  He catches the spirit, pulls him close, and hides his own tears in the boy’s outlandish hat.

 

***

 

**Day Fifty-eight**

En route to Denerim in Ferelden

_With two failures behind us, we’re running out of options.  Cassandra sent a raven, again asking if I won’t consider more conventional routes.  It’s not as though we can go to a Circle, there’s too much at stake for that.  Beyond that, even with Divine Victoria coming from our ranks, there’s no guarantee that the scandal won’t ruin the Inquisition forever.  And there’s no way to know if we’re done yet.  No way to know until we can ask Trevelyan._

_As to her absurd idea that we make him Tranquil and then use the Seeker’s rite to restore him, I don’t have enough words to express my distaste with the idea.  If the rite were designed to fix possession then there wouldn’t be so many Harrowings that end in death.  And if the restoration were a sure thing...I don’t know what to say about that._

_This is certainly not meant to be a record of my feelings for the mage politics of Thedas._

_We began dosing him again that night.  None of us, however, noticed any withdrawal symptoms.  No matter that it was only one day off, but we all had our eyes peeled._

_We’re on our way to Ferelden now.  Headed to the Kocari wilds to find the Avvar, at least what remains of them.  Very early in the life of the Inquisition, Trevelyan made an impression on a shaman there.  I’m hoping that it was impressive enough to warrant a trade of information and, perhaps, to get him to call on his Lady of the Skies.  Or one of his gods, none of the texts were very specific on who does what._

*

 

Sera disappears almost the moment they make land.  She tasks Bull with repacking her things, of which she has fewer to exchange than any of them, before darting through the crowd.  Cole watches her go with big eyes before leading them to the stables.  Blackwall steps to the front to begin negotiating while The Iron Bull stands beside their cart.  

“You never know who's going to get any ideas,” He mutters as Dorian passes him and ignores Trevelyan who’s following the mage.  Dorian doesn’t argue, or even acknowledge him past a nod, watching as Blackwall works to divest the merchant of his most stout steeds.

Dorian huffs as they wait for the stable master to return with their mounts.  Everything is cold and smells of dog, neither of which improve his mood.  Their trunks are repacked and are to be sent with a caravan back to Skyhold, and each of them is outfitted with familiar packs and warm clothes.  Horses will speed their way, but they are still looking at another three weeks, and that is if the Avvar tribe they’re looking for hasn’t traveled to a new part of the Frostbacks.

Blackwall, on the other hand, appears to be thriving in familiar territory.  He’s bartering jovially with the master of horse, and whatever he’s saying is working because the man just dropped the price of each horse by two sovereigns.

They spend one more ‘warm’ night in the Gnawed Noble.  Dorian neither comments on nor questions the name.

Sera shows up, sitting at a table with a plate piled with biscuits and honey, early the next morning.  Her face is split into the biggest grin any of them have seen since before the Inquisitor was possessed.

“Visit an old girlfriend, Sera?” The Iron Bull takes his place next to her and snatches a biscuit. He nudges her as gently as she can, which means she only makes a quiet ’ _oof_ ’ as she hits the wall.  But she just smiles at him, stabbing her with her elbow, eyes all squnichy.

Blackwall joins in the ribbing, his deep voice happy and open.  Cole laughs, perching next to the Warden, happy to be involved, even when Sera squawks at his insight into her bedroom habits.

All Dorian feels is the hot weight of Trevelyan gripping his hip, Its breath on his neck.  He sits at the bar, not wanting to bring them down and he prays.  He prays that the weather stays with them.  Spring is turning to summer, whatever little that means in the South, but the weather is more likely to be gentle.  He prays that the tribe hasn’t moved.  He prays, though he hasn’t in a long while before this, that the Maker, or Andraste on His behalf, would lift this burden from Trevelyan.  Who has had to deal with so much else.

He really doesn’t cry this time.

 

***

 

**Day Eighty-one**

The Uncharted Lowlands in Ferelden 

_Travel is swift.  We wake at dawn, eat while we ride, and make camp as late as we can, sometimes late enough to need firelight.  It keeps taking the potion and hasn’t tried to escape. I wonder if It’s resigned to Its fate.  No matter, we’re running out options.  Cassandra may end up getting her way.  Won’t Her Grace be smug._

 

*

 

The road, as long as it can still be called that, is smooth moving.  The Imperial Highway is well guarded and only occasionally are they set upon by highwaymen.  But then the road ends.  It becomes a muddy path, weaving and wandering through the marsh.

“Dorian!” The Bull sidles up to him. “Come on big guy, clouds belong in the sky.”

“This will end, one way or the other,” Cole says from his own horse.  “The first way is loneliness the second way is fear.  No matter what, there’s fear.”

 

***

 

**Day Ninety-three**

Avvar camp

_It took us ten days to find them.  They had moved on, but luckily Bull’s training included tracking.  In all actuality they found us, their scouts brought us before their new chief and I tried to plead our case.  Blackwall ended up being far more help than I was._

_The chief wasn’t inclined to us, I can’t imagine why, until the shaman came out of the mist.  He turned the tide in our favor._

 

*

 

”This stops.” The augur, as Dorian finds they are called, gestures to the vial Dorian’s showing him. interrupting the retelling of the situation.  “How long until it’s out of him?" 

“He has to take it every three days, so anything longer than that and he should be clear.” Dorian’s voice has little affect to it, he’s so tired.

“Eight days from now.  Come, we will bind him safely.”

They follow him into the marsh, through the mist to a hut.  The augur shows Dorian how to lay a proper ward.

 

***

 

**Day One Hundred and One**

_The past eight days have been the worst of my life.  The demon, now with Its connection to the Fade restored, is livid.  It throws Itself against the barrier, cursing and snarling, bleeding and breaking.  I’m so ready for this to be over.  I can’t spend another day listening to your voice say these things.  It’s too much, and I never thought that this is what love would mean._

 

*

 

“You think this boy will want you after this?  You think that he can stand the _sight_ of you?”  The demon growls during Dorian’s watch.  “You’re dead to him, if he’s not dead already.”  Dorian refuses to look directly at the _thing_ , he can’t.  It hums and Dorian turns around to avoid temptation.  “He’s been quiet for the past few days anyway.”  He continues in a sing-song way, “He’s giving up on you.  You’ve failed him, amatus.”

Dorian goes to wake Bull early for his watch.

 

*

 

The augur presents Trevelyan with a glowing vial.  “You will need this before the night is over.”

Dorian takes it from the demon’s hands, opens and sniffs it, “Elfroot, royal I think, and lyrium.  Something else besides.”  He hands the vial to Bull.

“Blood.” He says, even as the augur cuts open his thumb.

“Yes.  I have done this, as did my apprentice and did my teacher.”  He paints his blood over Trevelyan’s face, across the brow and chin, down the nose, a dot to both corners of the mouth.  “We hunt it.  Once we catch it, Imhar will separate the prey from the host and destroy it.”

Bull, without consulting anyone, hands the vial back to Trevelyan all the while keeping a stony eye on the shaman.

“Go.” The augur says, pointing out into the fog.

It does, flitting through the damp and the trees and the moss, much like Cole does.  The spirit is right on Its heels.  The rest follow the Avvar, stepping carefully.  It takes hours, the horizon is brightening over the Frostbacks and the sky is turning grey.

Trevelyan is curled up in a shallow pool, kneeling with his arms wrapped tightly around himself.  He’s screaming, veilfire surrounding him, nails digging into his arms. 

Dorian ducks under Bull’s arm, rushing forward to kneel beside him.  His hands clutching at the back of his tunic.  He leans forward, needing to see his lover’s face, needing him to know he wasn’t alone.  He doesn’t even realize he’s talking until glowing, purple eyes meet his.  “Tell it no, amatus.  Free yourself from it.”  He goes on.  On and on and he holds the vial for Trystan to drink from, to give him strength and a surge of power to help him _win_.

Trevelyan explodes with light, the screaming stops and Dorian blacks out for a time.

 

*

 

When he comes to, he’s on his back in the mud, Sera perched over him.  He sits up, pushing her out of the way.  She lands on her arse with a small ‘ _rude_ ’ as he spins onto his knees, head swinging around.

Trystan is there, laying less than three feet from him, just out of arm’s reach, breathing and not glowing.  But he’s so still.  Dorian slides over to him, ignoring The Bull who is watching over them both now and the augur who has his back to the group.  Blackwall and Cole are working on a fire.  He reaches down to cup a cheek, it’s cool but he can feel a pulse fluttering under his palm.

“Did it work?” Dorian croaks out.  He can’t look away.

“When he wakes he will be himself.  Your Herald is strong,” the Avvar says, and walks away.

Dorian lays down next to him, curling into his side, his head resting on Trystan’s shoulder.  “Amatus, wake up,” he whispers into his ear, brushed lips against a stubbly cheek.  “Wake up, please.”

“Dorian.” Bull says from above them, and Sera pulls on his arm to pull him back to the fire.

The mage looks up and into the eyes he knows, no alien spark or cruel gleam.  Dorian smiles and he brushes his nose back and forth over the same patch of stubble.  “Amatus.”

Trystan smiles at him,  “Good morning, love.” His whisper only just reaches Dorian, who isn’t ashamed that he’s crying.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, thank you for reading. I'm so anxious, this is the longest piece that I've finished. I hope you like it. Happy Holidays!
> 
> (Ok, so, I haven't played Trespasser yet, and I know what happens. And then I get ready to post this an realize that I haven't made any references to loss of limb in the story at all. If this bothers you, please let me know and I'll fix it. I realize that it's important, but I just plain forgot about it. I'm so sorry, I suck. But, seriously, I'll fix it.)
> 
> Also, please let me know if you see anything that should be tagged that I left out.
> 
> I took a few liberties with Rivain. I tried to keep it as close to the descriptions I've seen, but, well, it is what it is.


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